


A Little Wicked

by tsiviaravina



Series: Sound and Fury [3]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Dark Lucifer Morningstar, Dom Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Established Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar, F/M, Feminist Themes, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, Not Beta Read, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Possessive Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Protective Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Shameless Smut, Sub Chloe Decker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-31 22:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17858468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsiviaravina/pseuds/tsiviaravina
Summary: Chloe's work has her feeling a little wicked. She goes to Lucifer for comfort, which he is more than glad to give.Then he leaves on the Devil's work.





	A Little Wicked

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, here's what happened.  
> I got inspired by this fanvid, A Little Wicked, on YouTube, which is all about the glory that is Maze. (I adore Maze, but don't have the confidence to really write with her voice yet.) However, I was listening to the song as I wrote, and the piece turned into Deckerstar smut and then took a hard left turn into Protective/Possessive/Dark Lucifer Territory kind of as if imagined by Stephen King, so I decided to tuck it into the "Sound and Fury" series. Mind the tags; they are listed for your safety and comfort while aboard the vehicle. (Please note that the Original Male Character gets the literal p*ss scared out of him.) 
> 
> Song Lyrics: "A Little Wicked" by Valerie Broussard
> 
> I OWN NOTHING! I am playing in the Lucifer (TV) sandbox—that's all. Just try and sue me—hysterical laughter will result.

> _"A little wicked_
> 
> _That's what he calls me_
> 
> _'Cause that's what I am,_
> 
> _That's what I am."_

He sees the dress first. 

A flash of purest red among all the black.

Then he sees skin—ivory, toned with muscle, gentled with curves.

Graceful movements.

He steps out of the shadows, his interest piqued. 

A burst of unbound golden hair.

"Detective," he exhales in surprise.

His eyes grow dark with his own desires.

> _"No one calls you honey when you're sittin' on a throne._
> 
> _No one calls you honey when you're sittin' on a throne._
> 
> _Beware the patient woman, 'cause this much I know,_
> 
> _No one calls you honey when you're sittin' on a throne."_

He's here.

She can feel him watching her, his gaze skimming over her skin.

The hair on the back of her neck prickles.

She draws on all the skills she has been taught as a girl and stretches, bends, and spins her body in perfect time with the song, waiting.

Waiting...

> _"One of these days a-comin', I'm gonna take that boy's crown._
> 
> _There's a serpent in these still waters, lying deep down._
> 
> _To that king I will bow, at least for now._
> 
> _One of these days a-comin', I'm gonna take that boy's crown."_

He puts his tumbler down on the nearest flat surface, shoots his cuffs, straightens his lapels, and begins winding his way towards her—to the woman who can have his crown, have his throne, if that is truly her wish.

> _"'Cause I am, I am_
> 
> _A little wicked._
> 
> _I am, yes, I am_
> 
> _Hands red, hands red,_
> 
> _Just like you said,_
> 
> _I am a little wicked."_

He steps ever closer, watching as she easily evades capture by lesser men—and they are _all_ lesser men when compared to him.

He allows himself, slowly, to be noticed, for the others to save their sanity by backing away to find easier prey.

> _"No one calls you honey when you're sittin' on a throne._
> 
> _I'll be high up in that tower, he'll be down there gettin' stoned._
> 
> _Beware the patient woman, 'cause this much I know,_
> 
> _No one calls you honey when you're sittin' on a throne._

The dance floor empties around her, a reward for her patience.

She smiles to herself, knowing her back is to him.

She feels hands at her waist—the right size, shape, and warmth. She lets him smooth his hands over the satin and lace of the dress.

Thumbs travel the length of her spine making her part her lips and arch her back into his touch.

He finally grabs her hand and spins her around until she's flush against him, a large hand at the small of her back.

"Lucifer," she smiles, running a proprietary hand through his hair.

His answering grin is wonderfully predatory.

"Need to be a little wicked tonight, darling?"

She leans against his chest and reaches up with her other hand to pull his mouth to hers.

They could power L.A. County with the heat of their kiss.

> _"'Cause I am, I am_
> 
> _A little wicked._
> 
> _I am, I am_
> 
> _Hands red, hands red,_
> 
> _Just like you said_
> 
> _I am a little wicked."_

In the penthouse, on the bed, a scene of exquisite torture.

He loves this, lying between her spread thighs, teasing her with one hand and his mouth, while he strokes himself with the other.

Her hands are fisted tightly in the sheets. Her hips are pinned to the bed through sheer force of will. One leg bent at the knee to give her traction on the smooth sheets. He refuses her request to be tied down—"I want _you_ to know that _you_ want to be here, with me. That the only thing keeping you here is your own free will," he tells her, running his hands over her body.

His fingers pump slowly inside her while he takes lazy swipes at her with his tongue. She always promises herself that she won't beg—this time.

She always breaks that promise.

She's slick with sweat and the throbbing between her legs is maddening. "Lucifer, let me come," she snaps.

She gets a sharp slap against the tender skin of her inner thigh for her trouble.

Anger, hot and liquid, flows through her. She needs to push back. 

She tries to sit up and he's on her instantly, the strength in his hands pinning her wrists to the bed.

She snarls.

He laughs.

"Chloe..." he whispers into her ear, puffs of warm breath making her shiver. "Darling, do you _really_ need to behave this badly for me?"

_"Yes!"_

"Why?"

Silence.

"Answer me." That voice that is velvet over steel.

Her eyes spit fire at him.

"You earned this, love," he sighs, and with a sudden lurch she's face-down over his lap. 

He administers three well-placed slaps to her ass.

She yelps, more in surprise than in pain.

"Let me go!" Struggling against his grasp is an exercise in futility.

"Just say the word and I'll let you go." He runs one of his hands soothingly down her back. "Or you could tell me why you're so angry."

Her body, held so stiffly, begins to relax against the warm pressure of his hand on her back.

"That...asshole in Vice," she grinds out from between clenched teeth. 

"Peters?" he asks to confirm. A misogynist of the first order whom they were able to ignore most of the time. "What did he do?" he asks, his voice deceptively soft.

"The frigging copier jammed again." She should feel so much more humiliated right now than she did this afternoon—after all, she's sprawled in prime spanking position over her lover's lap, but Lucifer...Lucifer, she has come to realize, truly _loves_ _women_. He loves _everything_ about them and isn't frightened or intimidated by women having power. Peters, on the other hand...

"I had to...get down on my hands and knees to fix it and that asshat passes by and says, 'Glad you finally learned your _place_ , Decker.' Loud enough for the _entire_ bullpen to hear."

Lucifer's hand stills. 

"Ella 'accidentally' dumped a full cup of coffee all over his desk about a half-hour later, but..."

She feels herself being moved and shifted until she's lying next to Lucifer, her head resting on his chest. "You work and you fight and you do twice as much to get half as far when you're a woman in _any_ profession. And when you get to where you want to be, you have to _keep_ fighting just to stay in place." She sighs. "I'm sorry I tried to take it out on you. You didn't deserve it." She turns her head and presses kisses across his chest.

"I didn't, but now that I understand the _why_ of the matter, maybe we can work out some of your anger and frustration in more...mutually beneficial ways?" he suggests. "If you're still feeling wicked, that is." 

He tips her head up and sees her eyes regain that spark and her mouth turn upwards in a grin. She straddles him, intent on claiming a kiss, but gasps when he holds her hips and enters her in one smooth stroke.

He moans beneath her and then chuckles.

"What?" she asks, swiveling her hips just right to make his eyes roll back in his head.

"I think you found your proper place, darling," he replies, rolling his hips to meet hers.

She tosses back her head and laughs, her movements quickening above him.

Her proper place, indeed.

 

* * *

 

It's much later when Lucifer slips out of bed, waiting to make sure Chloe is indeed fully asleep.

He dresses easily and quickly in the dark.

He leaves a brief note for Chloe on the nightstand in case she awakens before he returns.

**_Reclaiming your throne, darling. Wait for me._ **

**_—L._ **

 

* * *

 

 

> _"As I lay me down to sleep_
> 
> _I will not scream, I will not weep._
> 
> _If he should die before he wakes,_
> 
> _I pray the Lord his soul to take."_

He doesn't take the convertible. 

It holds too many good memories.

He doesn't want it tainted by what he's about to do.

He takes a nondescript (well, for him) Jaguar that could be black or blue or grey, and drives to the human stain's apartment complex.

He circles it once and carefully parks a block away.

The door to the apartment opens at his touch. 

 

* * *

 

> _"'Cause I am, I am_
> 
> _A little wicked._
> 
> _I am, yes, I am._
> 
> _Hands red, hands red_
> 
> _Just like you said,_
> 
> _I am, I am_
> 
> _A little wicked."_

The alarm on George Peters' phone is going off.

He groans, fumbles through the empties on the side table for his phone with his right arm, then realizes that he can't move his left arm.

He opens his eyes to darkness.

He yanks his left hand. 

He's cuffed by his left wrist to his recliner.

"What the fuck...?" he says, yanking harder. His head is thumping from too many beers and not enough sleep. His bladder is painfully full.

"Careful. You don't want to have to replace that chair."

The voice is soft and smooth and British.

That happy asshole, Lucifer...whatever-the-fuck. The "civilian consultant".

"What the fuck are you doing in my house?" His voice is thin with sleep, querulous. 

A sigh. The click of a cigarette lighter. Peters can see him now, in the lighter's brief flare.

Morningstar. 

That's the happy asshole's last name.

The lighter clicks shut.

_Snick._

Darkness again, except for the red tip of the cigarette.

"Fuckin' answer me, asshole!" he yells, throwing a beer can in the guy's general direction.

"I am forced to be here in this abysmal apartment and not resting next to my lover in my own bed because you could not control your tongue today."

"What the fuck—"

All the air leaves his body in one huge exhalation. There's pressure, too much pressure, like a 100-pound weight dropped right on his chest and his bladder and he's trying to breathe and not piss himself at the same time.

"You insipid fool." The voice is right in front of his face and he can hear the rage underneath the blandness. 

"Your limited vocabulary makes me wonder how you _ever_ earned a badge."

He tries to find the strength to bat away the hand on his chest, and loses the battle for his bladder.

The air comes back into his lungs in a painful rush.

He's cuffed to what _used_ to be his favorite recliner, piss drying on his legs.

"Smells like _someone_ needs a change, eh, Georgie?"

"H-How did you—"

"Know of your long-time battle with nocturnal enuresis? You still have a waterproof sheet on the bed, Georgie!" The rage in the voice is mixed with a gleeful, careless cruelty now.

"So tell me—what's it like, being so _thoroughly_ humiliated in front of one person, Georgie, let alone your _entire_ workplace? Because, believe me...I can make that happen for you, too." The voice is low and pleasant, as if it's sharing a delicious secret. 

"I-I s-still d-don't understand—"

"You don't understand much, do you Georgie? Certainly not women. _Two_ ex-wives on a cop's salary? No wonder you live in such...squalor."

He scrabbles on the end table for his phone.

"It's not there, Georgie," the voice says, with false sympathy, patronizing. "It's in my pocket and will be on your desk, unharmed and whole, tomorrow. And maybe you'll be more careful with your words around your female co-workers from now on."

It hits him, sudden and hard.

_Decker._

This is about Decker. 

"I-I was j-just jokin' around, man—"

Pressure on his throat cut off his air.

"You were vulgar, rude, and churlish, you mouth-breathing malcontent," the voice hisses in his ear like a snake.

The pressure on his throat releases. 

He gags, trying not to add puke to the piss in his lap.

"Decker. You're fuc—"

"You will complete that sentence only if you truly desire to have your testicles ripped off one."

"At."

"A."

"Time."

Peters swallows and pulls his head away from the cigarette that is suddenly very close to his eyes.

"I-I'm sorry. P-please don't hurt me," he stutters into the dark, fetid air.

"Why does everyone say that before they're punished?" Lucifer muses aloud, then clicks the lighter open.

_Snick._

George "Georgie" Peters passes out without a sound.

 

* * *

 

 

Lucifer casually takes the man's pulse. It's steady and strong; he'll live.

And he will be sane when he wakes. Lucifer hadn't shown him anything at all. The more stupid the individual, the easier to terrorize, he discovered early on during his tenure in Hell. 

The man has simply passed out from fear.

Lucifer gladly leaves the apartment and sends the cigarette down the nearest sewer grate.

He climbs back into his car and heads to the station, where he places Detective Peters' phone on the center of his desk.

He makes it back to the penthouse with plenty of time to undress and get rid of the note. He even remembers to brush the taste of the cigarette away. His wonderfully wicked Detective prefers it that way, as does he.

He slips under the covers and presses himself up against her back. She murmurs something unintelligible and he runs his fingers through her hair, soothing her back to sleep with a kiss to the forehead.

He drifts off into sleep, pleased with the night's work.

> _"No one calls you honey when you're sittin' on a throne._
> 
> _No one calls you honey when you're sittin' on a throne."_


End file.
